
Class 
Book. 



PRESENTED BY 



IMris .,.«uoari &i»{jjtm». 



BRYANT. 



POEMS FROM THE 
WORKS OF WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, 

FOR HOMES, LIBRARIES, AND SCHOOLS. 



COMPILED BY 

JOSEPHINE E. HODGDOK 



ILLUSTRATED. 



NEW YORK: 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

1902. 



COPYRIGHT BY 

D„ APPLETON AND COMPANY- 

1888. 






Gift 









CONTENTS. 



%. 



PAGE 

William Cullen Bryant 7 

Thanatopsis 15 

The Yellow Violet 17 

To a Waterfowl 19 

Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood 21 

The West Wind 23 

October ........ 25 

November ...-..<, 26 

A Forest Hymn 27 

The Firmament 31 

The Gladness of Nature 33 

"i broke the spell that held me long " 34 

Midsummer v 35 

William Tell 37 

To the Fringed Gentian .39 

" Innocent Child and Snow-white Flower " 41 

The twentt-seoond of December 43 

Thou, God, seest me 44 

Seventy-six 45 

The Battle of Bennington 46 

The Antiquity of Freedom 47 

The White-footed Deer 51 

The Land of Dreams 53 

The Planting of the Apple-Tree 55 

The Snow-Shower f7 

Robert of Lincoln ....„...„. 59 



iv CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A Song of New-Year's Eve 61 

The Little People of the Snow 63 

Abraham Lincoln . .77 

A Legend of St. Martin 79 

The Words of the Koran . . . . . •. . . .81 

The Mystery of Flowers 83 

The Centennial Hymn 85 

The Flood of Years 87 

In Memory of John Lothrop Motley 91 

The Twenty-second of February 93 

Fables: „• 94 

The Elm and the Vine. 

The Donkey and the Mocking-Bird. 

The Caterpillar and the Butterfly. 

The Spider's Web. 

The Dial and the Sun. 

The Eagle and the Serpent. 

The Woodman and the Sandal-Tree. 

The Hidden Rill. 

The Cost of a Pleasure. 



INTKODUOTKOT TO THE LEAFLETS. 



" Consider what you have in the smallest chosen library. A company of the wisest 
and wittiest men that could be picked out of all civil countries, in a thousand years, have 
set in best order the results of their learning and wisdom. The men themselves were 
hid and inaccessible, solitary, impatient of interruptions, fenced by etiquette ; but the 
thought which they did not uncover to their bosom friend is here written out in trans- 
parent words to us, the strangers of another age." — Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

How can our young people be led to take pleasure in the writings of our 
best authors ? 

An attempt to answer this important inquiry is the aim of these Leaflets. 
It is proposed, by their use in the school and the family, to develop a love for 
the beautiful thoughts, the noble and elevating sentiments, that pervade the 
choicest literature, and thus to turn aside that flood of pernicious reading 
which is deluging the children of our beloved country. It is hoped that they 
will prove effective instruments in securing the desired end, and an aid in the 
attainment of a higher mental and moral culture. 

Our best writers, intelligent teachers, and lecturers on literary subjects, 
have given suggestions and material for this work, and rendered its realiza- 
tion possible. Those who, knowing the power of a good thought well 
expressed, have endeavored to popularize works of acknowledged merit by 
means of copied extracts, marked passages, leaves torn from books, and other 
expensive and time-consuming expedients, will gladly welcome this new, 
convenient, and inexpensive arrangement of appropriate selections as helps 
to the progress they are attempting to secure. This plan and the selections 
used are the outgrowth of experience in the school-room, and their utility 
and adaptation to the proposed aims have been proved. By means of these 
sheets, each teacher can have at command a larger range of authors than is 
otherwise possible. A few suggestions in regard to these Leaflets may not 
be amiss : 

1. They may be used for sight-reading and silent reading. 

2. They may be employed for analysis of the author's meaning and lan- 
guage, which may well be made a prominent feature of the reading-lesson, as 
it is the best preparation for a proper rendering of the passages given. 

3. They may he distributed, that each pupil may spend any spare time in 
choosing his own favorite selection. This may afterward be used, as its char- 
acter or the pupil's inclination suggests, for sentiment, essay, reading, recita- 
tion, or declamation. 

4. Mr. Longfellow's method, as mentioned in the sketch accompanying 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 

his poems, in this series of Leaflets, may he profitably followed, as it will 
promote a helpful interplay of thought between teacher and pupils, and lead 
unconsciously to a love and understanding of good authors. 

5. Short quotations may be given in answer to the daily roll-call. 

6. Some of the selections are especially adapted to responsive and chorus 
class-reading. 

7. The lyrical poems can be sung to some familiar tunes. 

8. The sketch which will be found with each series may serve as the 
foundation for essays on the author's life and works'. 

9. The illustrations may be employed as subjects for language-lessons, thus 
cultivating the powers of observation and expression. 

All these methods combined may be made to give pleasure to the pupils' 
friends, and make it feasible to entertain them oftener than is now the cus- 
tom, thus creating an interest in the school and a sympathy with the author 
whose works are the subjects of study. The foregoing is by no means a 
necessary order, and teachers will vary from it as their own appreciation of 
the intelligence of their pupils and the interest of the exercise shall suggest. 

The object to be kept in view is, pleasantly to introduce the works of our 
best authors to growing minds, and to develop in them a taste for the best in 
literature, that the world of books may become to them an unfailing source 
of inspiration and delight. 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 




•^n%Ca^GMw(^cu<A-^ 



A few years ago there died in New York city a man standing in the 
first rank of literature, who had made his literary reputation hefore Sir 
Walter Scott hegan his series of the Waverley novels. He was in his prime 
when Dickens and Thackeray first hegan to write, and in the full exer- 
cise of his intellectual powers after they had laid aside forever their busy 

7 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 

pens. Closely identified with the national life of his native land, and having 
a large share in originating and elevating its literature, and in shaping the 
course of its politics, William Cullen Bryant truly merited the encomium of 
being accounted "the most accomplished, the most distinguished, and the 
most universally honored, citizen of the United States," and that, too, solely 
by his genius, moral rectitude, and force of character. " He was my master 
' in verse," said Longfellow, "ten years and more my senior, and throughout 
my whole life I have had the warmest reverential regard for him." " It is 
certain," said Ralph Waldo Emerson, "that Bryant has written some of the 
very best poetry that we have had in America." Bryant was born in Cum- 
mington, a little town in Western Massachusetts, on November 3, 1794. His 
father, Dr. Peter Bryant, was a man of rare intelligence, taste, and sagacity, 
a practicing physician and surgeon, and one of the third generation who'had 
followed that profession. The genial doctor never realized his dream of 
educating a child of his own for his favorite profession. He named the fu- 
ture poet and journalist after Dr. Cullen, the famous Scotch physician, but 
William never had any liking for his father's profession, realizing fully, as 
he said in after-years, the unremitting toil and arduous duties of a country 
doctor's life. William Cullen's mother was a lineal descendant of John Al- 
den, the lieutenant of Miles Standish and the hero of one of Longfellow's 
charming poems. She was a woman of great force of character, of personal 
dignity, and excellent good sense. Although her education was limited to 
the ordinary English branches, she was a great reader, and early taught her 
child to repeat standard English poetry. When he was scarcely three years 
old, William was made to repeat Dr. Watts's psalms and hymns. In his poem 
called " A Lifetime," written when the scenes of childhood were memories 
of the long past, Bryant pictures himself standing by his mother's knee and 
repeating some of Dr. Watts's devotional verses. In a charming article, 
written when the poet was eighty-two years old, for a leading juvenile mag- 
azine, and also in the fragment of an autobiography, printed in Mr. Parke 
Godwin's Life, Bryant has given the world the story of his boyish days. 
He tells us of the system of family discipline which parents thought neces- 
sary in order to secure obedience, and of the respect paid by the young 
to their seniors, especially to ministers of the gospel. Of the books to which 
he had access, eighty years ago, he tells us, some were excellent and some 
were trash or worse; among the good he names "Sandford and Merton," 
"Robinson Crusoe," "Pilgrim's Progress," Mrs. Barbauld's works, Watts's 
and Cowper's poems. From a very early age, Bryant displayed a taste for 
reading and study. His father took great pains to direct his boy to those 
great English classics of which he had been a life-long student. The lad de- 
lighted to pore over Pope, Gray, and Goldsmith, and soon began to write 
verses. The varied and picturesque scenery of Western Massachusetts became 
familiar to him from his love of out-door life and the companionship of his 
father. Thus even from childhood his native hills, valleys, woods, and rivers, 

8 



BRYANT. 

were like old friends, and he was taught to love Nature under all her varied 
aspects. A man of sound scholarship and refined tastes, Dr. Bryant, recog- 
nizing the poetic gift of his son, judiciously and wisely aided in its develop- 
ment. While he encouraged the first rude efforts of boyish genius and taught 
the value of correctness and compression, he also trained his son " to distin- 
guish between true poetic enthusiasm and fustian." Even from the first, 
there was nothing forced, morbid, or immature about the young poet's verses j 
and he wrote as if he had already had experience. Bryant's poetical pow- 
ers thus early developed, remained unimpaired to an age beyond that usually 
allotted to man. " Thanatopsis " was written in his eighteenth year ; and 
the noble "'Ode" written for "Washington's birthday, February 22, 1878, 
in his eighty-fourth. Hence, an eminent scholar has justly said : " No one 
will deny that in one respect, at least, Bryant's fame was entirely unique. 
He was the author of the finest verses ever produced by any one so young, 
and so old, as the author of ' Thanatopsis ' and of ' The Twenty-second of 
February.' " 

In 1807 President Jefferson laid an embargo on American shipping, an 
act which was bitterly denounced in New England. The boy Bryant caught 
the spirit of the times and made the hated embargo the subject of a satiri- 
cal poem, entitled "The Embargo; or, Sketches of the Times," which was- 
published in Boston in 1808, "by a youth of thirteen." The poem was- 
favorably received, and a second edition called for. During the next few 
years several other poems were written, undoubtedly clever, but by no 
means characteristic of the poet's subsequent productions. In 1810, in his- 
sixteeuth year, Bryant entered Williams College, and remained there for 
two years, but was obliged to leave on account of his father's pecuniary 
affairs, which rendered retrenchment necessary. Dr. Bryant intended to 
send his son back to college, but was unable to do so. Of Bryant's brief col- 
legiate career many interesting particulars have been recorded. He distin- 
guished himself for his aptness and industry in the study of the ancient clas- 
sics and his love for the best literature. The college afterward conferred 
upon him the degree of A. M., and enrolled him as an alumnus. After leav- 
ing college Bryant continued his studies at home for a time, but soon began 
the study of law, first with Judge Howe, of Worthington, near Cummington, 
and afterward with Mr. William Baylies, of Bridgewater. In 1815, at the 
age of twenty-one, he was admitted to the bar. He first opened an office at 
Plainfield, but after a time settled in Great Barrington. In the latter place 
he passed the next nine years of his life, and there some of his well-known 
poems were written. When the young poet went away from his native town 
to read law, he left the manuscript of a poem behind him, which was found 
by his father and sent by him to the "North American Review." One of 
the editors, Richard H. Dana, read the poem carefully, and was so surprised 
at its excellence that he doubted whether it was written on this side of the 
Atlantic. This remarkable poem, known to all the world as "Thanatopsis," 

9 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 

was printed in the " North American Review " for September, 1817. " This 
poem," says George William Curtis, " was the first adequate poetic voice of 
the solemn New England spirit. Moreover, it was without a harbinger in 
■our literature, and without a trace of the English masters of the hour." A 
pleasant story is told, that when the poet's father showed " Thanatopsis " in 
manuscript to a lady well qualified to judge of its merits, simply saying, " Oh ! 
read that — it is Oullen's," she read the poem, raised her eyes to the good 
doctor's face, and burst into tears, in which the father, a reserved and silent 
man, was not ashamed to join. Six months later, in March, 1818, the young 
poet added to his reputation by publishing a poem entitled " To a Waterfowl," 
in tbe "North American Review." This exquisite piece, written in clear 
and strong language, in melody simple and sweet, and displaying a keen and 
accurate observation of nature, has always been a favorite, and displays some 
of Bryant's best characteristics. 

In 1821 Mr. Bryant was married to Miss Frances Fairchild, and for 
nearly half a century she was the good angel of his life. During all these 
years " his wife was his only really intimate friend, and when she died 
he had no other. He was young, his fame was growing, and with domes- 
tic duties, with literary studies and work, and professional and public activi- 
ties, his tranquil days passed in the happy valley of the Housatonic." It 
was to his wife that Bryant addressed the poem beginning, " O fairest of 
the rural maids," "The Future Life," and "The Life that Is"; and her 
memory and her loss are tenderly embalmed in one of the most touching 
of his later poems, " October, 1866." On account of the interest awak- 
ened by his published poems, and through the influence of Mr. Dana, Bry- 
ant was invited to deliver a poem before the Phi Beta Kappa Society at 
Harvard College, an honor rarely conferred upon so young a man. He ac- 
cepted, and read at Cambridge, in 1821, the longest and most elaborate poem 
he ever wrote, entitled " The Ages." Richard H. Stoddard describes it as " a 
rapid, comprehensive, philosophic, and picturesque summary of the history 
of mankind from the earliest periods, a shifting panorama of good and evil 
figures and deeds, the rising and falling of religions, kingdoms, empires, and 
the great shapes of Greece and Rome." Thoughtful and suggestive, it stands 
first in all the complete editions of Bryant's collected works, forming a fitting 
introduction to the other poems. The next four years of the young poet's 
life were more productive than any before, for some thirty of his best poems 
were written during this time. In the mean time a little thin book of forty- 
four pages, containing " The Ages " and others of his poems, had been pub- 
lished, and was everywhere favorably received. It established beyond ques- 
tion his reputation as a poet. By this time, it became generally known that 
Bryant disliked his profession, and would welcome any relief from its irksome 
duties. Influential friends secured a literary position for him in New York 
city, and early in 1825 he left the Berkshire hills for the more congenial 
•occupation of journalism in the great metropolis. " Here he lived," says his 

10 



BRYANT. 

intimate friend James Grant Wilson, " from earliest youth to venerable age 
— from thirty-one to eighty-four — in one path of honor and success." In 
1826 Bryant became permanently connected with the " Evening Post," with 
which his name was associated until the day of his death — more than half a 
century afterward. To his future life-work of journalism the young editor 
brought literary experience, solid learning, refined taste, and, even then, the 
prestige of a well-earned reputation. Bryant was too wise a man to sup- 
pose that poetry would ever give him a substantial living. " I should have 
starved," he once said, "if I had been obliged to depend upon my poetry for 
a living." As a newspaper editor and proprietor, he was a sagacious and 
successful man of business. Thrift and strict economy were cardinal virtues 
with him. He was thorough, watchful, and industrious in the smallest details 
of his newspaper work. He made the "Post" an educational power among 
its readers by diffusing scientific and practical information, and by stimulating 
the public mind to the enjoyment of literature and art. During at least forty- 
two of his fifty-two years of editorial service, Mr. Bryant was at his edi- 
torial desk before eight o'clock in the morning, and left the daily impress ot 
his character and genius in some form upon the columns of his journal. 
These long years were most momentous in the history of this country, and 
were passed in active aggressive work in the very center of political, intel- 
lectual,' and national activity. ' During all this time not only did no stain rest 
upon his character, but he stood as a conspicuous example of all that was 
admirable in journalism, in politics, and in private life. " He never en- 
gaged," said John Bigelow, in his address before the Century Club, "in any 
other business enterprise ; he never embarked in any financial speculations ; 
he was never an officer of any other financial or industrial corporation, nor 
did he ever accept any political office or trust." 

While Bryant continued a journalist all the days of his long life, he never 
ceased to be a poet. He earned his bread and molded public opinion with 
his newspaper, but looked to poetry for the perpetuation of his name. He 
never confounded the two vocations in any way, or allowed either to inter- 
fere to any great extent with the other. In brief, he wrote his editorials in 
the office, and his poetry in the quiet of his home. If we take into account 
only what Bryant published in book form, he wrote comparatively little. If 
we reckon his editorial contributions to the " Post," during fifty-two years, we 
shall find him one of the most voluminous writers thac ever lived. Some one, 
who had every opportunity to know, has estimated that his editorials alone 
would fill more than a hundred duodecimo volumes of five hundred pages 
each — all this, too, written in a style always pure, clear, and forcible, and giv- 
ing evidence of wide scholarship and profound reflection. Under Bryant's 
Sagacious and far-sighted management the "Post" became not only an influ- 
ential and leading journal, but was also a financial success. Its editor died a 
wealthy man. As a rest from his arduous labors, Bryant traveled occasion- 
ally. Between the years 1834 and 1867 he made six visits to Europe, and 

11 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD A TJTHORS. 




BETANT. 

at different times made long journeys through his own country. His readers 
traced his travels by his letters to the "Evening Post," which attracted a 
deal of attention for their keen observation and beauty of expression. Mr. 
Bryant published occasional volumes of poetry made up of his contributions 
to the periodicals of the day ; and in 1876 a complete illustrated edition of 
his poetical writings was issued. Under the heavy pressure of grief caused 
by the death of his beloved wife in 1866, the veteran poet at the age of sev- 
enty-two set himself to the formidable task of translating the " Iliad " and 
the " Odyssey. 1 ' The former occupied most of his leisure for three years, and 
the latter about two. These translations were highly praised both at home 
and abroad. Mr. Bryant had the peculiar talent of delivering addresses and 
memorial orations upon the lives and works of eminent men. A volume of 
these felicitous and appreciative addresses was published in 1872. His last 
poem of any great length was " The Flood of Years," written in the poet's 
eighty-second year, and showing no decay of his poetic genius. The vener- 
able poet's last public appearance was at the Central Park, in New York city, 
May 29, 1878, at the unveiling of a statue to Mazzini. After delivering his 
oration in the open air, and at times exposed to the hot rays of the sun, he 
walked to the home of his friend General "Wilson. Just as he was about to 
enter the door, the aged poet fell suddenly, striking his head oq the stone 
steps. He rallied somewhat and was able to ride to his own home. Paraly- 
sis of his right side followed, and, on July 12, 1878, his life, after sinking like 
a slowly-ebbing tide, came to a peaceful end. 

The tributes paid to Bryant's genius by the press and the public generally 
were immediate, warm, and sincere. The memory of the beloved poet is 
deservedly enshrined in that universal esteem and admiration which his 
noble life, as well as his literary achievements, had won for him. 

Mr. Bryant's wealth enabled him to live surrounded by every comfort and 
luxury. So far as he was personally concerned, he seemed to care very little 
for them. He had three residences, a city house in New York, a country 
house called '"Cedarmere," at Roslyn, Long Island, and the old homestead of 
the Bryant family at Oummington, Massachusetts. Very few famous men 
were better known by sight than the veteran editor. Day after day, and 
year after year, he could be seen in all weathers walking down to his office in 
the morning, and back to his house in the afternoon. He kept his vigor of 
body and mind by temperate self-restraint, good sense, a rigid observance of 
the laws of health, both in regard to proper sanitary arrangements and a 
strict attention to diet, sleep, and exercise. He rose early — about half-past 
five in winter, and generally an hour earlier in summer. A series of light 
gymnastics lasting for an hour or more, together with a bath from head to 
foot, followed. His food was of the simplest kind. Hominy and milk, brown 
bread or oatmeal, with baked sweet apples and other fruit, made up his break- 
fast. For dinner, he ate a moderate quantity of meat or fish, but generally 
made his dinner mostly of vegetables. His supper consisted only of bread and 

13 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 

butter and fruit. He never drank tea or coffee, and very rarely took a glass 
of wine. He always went to bed early — in town, as early as ten ; in the 
country, somewhat earlier. Even in the worst weather he always preferred 
to walk rather than to ride. His senses were perfect, his eyes needed no 
glasses, and his hearing was exquisitely fine until the day of the accident. 
Well might those who knew him best say that, but for the accident which 
caused his death, he would probably have become a veritable centenarian. 

Such was the pure, noble, and consistent life of William Cullen Bryant. 
His life and his grand life-work in literature all testify to his being truly and 
essentially a great and good man. 

14 



i 



BRYANT. 




THANATOPSIS. 



To him who in the love of Nature 

holds 
Communion with her visible forms, 

she speaks 
A various language; for his gayer 

hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a 

smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she 

glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals 

away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. 

When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a 

blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and 

pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the nar- 
row house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick 

at heart — 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To Nature's teachings, while from all 

around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths 

of air — 
Comes a still voice. — 

Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no 
more 

V 



In all his course ; nor yet in the cold 

ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid, with 

many tears, 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall 

exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished 

thee, shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth 

again, 
And, lost each human trace, surren- 
dering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements, 
To be a brother to the insensible rock 
And to the sluggish clod, which the 

rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. 

The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce 

thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting- 
place 

Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst 
thou wish 

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt 
lie down 

With patriarchs of the infant world 
— with kings, 

The powerful of the earth — the wise, 
the good, 

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages 
past, 



15 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun — 

the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness be- 
tween ; 
The venerable woods — rivers that 

move 
In majesty, and the complaining 

brooks 
That make the meadows green ; and, 

poured round all, 
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy 

waste — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The gold- 
en sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of 

heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of 

death, 
Through the still lapse of ages. All 

that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the 

tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. Take the 

wings 
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wil- 
derness, 
Or lose thyself in the continuous 

woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no 

sound, 
Save his own dashings — yet the dead 

are there : 
And millions in those solitudes, since 

first 
The flight of years began, have laid 

them down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign 

there alone. 
So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou 

withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no 

friend 



Take note of thy departure ? All that 
breathe 

Will share thy destiny. The gay will 
laugh 

When thou art gone, the solemn brood 
of care 

Plod on, and each one as before will 
chase 

His favorite phantom ; yet all these 
shall leave 

Their mirth and their employments, 
and shall come 

And make their bed with thee. As 
the long train 

Of ages glides away, the sons of men, 

The youth in life's fresh spring, and 
he who goes 

In the full strength of years, matron ! 
and maid, 

The speechless babe, and the gray- 
headed man — 

Shall one by one be gathered to thy 
side, 

By those, who in their turn shall fol- 
low them. 



So live, that when thy summons 

comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which 

moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each 

shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls o 

death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at 

night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sus 

tained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy 

grave, 
Like one who wraps the drapery 

his couch 
About him, and lies down to pie? 

dreams. 



| 

t'i 



i 



16 



BRYANT. 




THE YELLOW VIOLET. 



r HEN beechen buds begin to swell, 
And woods tbe blue-bird's warble 

know, 
he yellow violet's modest bell 

peps from tbe last year's leaves 
w, below. 

A| russet fields tbeir green resume, 
weet flower, I love, in forest bare, 



17 



To meet thee, when thy faint per- 
fume 
Alone is in the virgin air. 

Of all her train, the hands of Spring 
First plant thee in the watery 
mould, 

And I have seen thee blossoming 
Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



Thy parent sun, who bade thee view, 
Pale skies, and chilling moisture 
sip, 
Has bathed thee in his own bright 
hue, 
And streaked with jet thy glow- 
ing lip. 

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, 
And earthward beDt thy gentle eye, 

Unapt the passing view to meet, 
When loftier flowers are flaunting 



Oft, in the sunless April day, 
Thy early smile has stayed my 
walk; 



But midst the gorgeous blooms of 
May, 
I passed thee on thy humble stalk. 

So they, who climb to wealth, forget 
The friends in darker fortunes 
tried. 
I copied them — but I regret 

That I should ape the ways of 
pride. 

And when again the genial hour 
Awakes the painted tribes of light, 

I'll not o'erlook the modest flower 
That made the woods of April 
bright. 




BRYANT. 




f**> 




TO A WATERFOWL. 



Whither, midst falling dew, 
While glow the heavens with the last 

steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost 
thou pursue 
Thy solitary way ? 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do 

thee wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 



Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river 

wide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise 
and sink 
On the chafed ocean-side ? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless 

coast — 
The desert and illimitable air — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 



19 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



All day thy wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold, thin 

atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the wel- 
come land, 
Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end ; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, 

and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows ; reeds 
shall bend, 
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 



Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, 

on my heart 
Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast 
given, 
And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky 

thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread 
alone, 
Will lead my steps aright* 




20 



BRYANT. 




INSCRIPTION FOR THE ENTRANCE TO A WOOD. 



Stkanger, if thou hast learned a 

truth which needs 
No school of long experience, that 

the world 
Is full' of guilt and misery, and hast 

seen 
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, 

and cares, 
To tire thee of it, enter this wild 

wood 
And view the haunts of Nature. 

The calm shade 



Shall bring a kindred calm, and the 

sweet breeze 
That makes the green leaves dance, 

shall waft a balm 
To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find 

nothing here 
Of all that pained thee in the haunts 

of men, 
And made thee loathe thy life. The 

primal curse 
Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning 

earth, 



21 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



But not in vengeance. God hath 

yoked to guilt 
Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence, 

these shades 
Are still the abodes of gladness ; the 

thick roof 
Of green and stirring branches is 

alive 
And musical with birds, that sing 

and sport 
In wantonness of spirit; while be- 
low 
The squirrel, with raised paws and 

form erect, 
Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects 

in the shade 
Try their thin wings and dance in 

the warm beam 
That waked them into life. Even 

the green trees 
Partake the deep contentment; as 

they bend 
To the soft winds, the sun from the 

blue sky 
Looks in and sheds a blessing on the 

scene. 
Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower 

seems to enjoy 
Existence than the winged plun- 
derer 



That sucks its sweets. The mossy 

rocks themselves, 
And the old and ponderous trunks of 

prostrate trees 
That lead from knoll to knoll a causey 

rude 
Or bridge the sunken brook, and their 

dark roots, 
With all their earth upon them, twist- 
ing high, 
Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivu- 
let 
Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping 

o'er its bed 
Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the 

rocks, 
Seems, with continuous laughter, to 

rejoice 
In its own being. Softly tread the 

marge, 
Lest from her midway perch thou 

scare the wren 
That dips her bill in water. The 

cool wind, 
That stirs the stream in play, shall 

come to thee, 
Like one that loves thee nor will let 

thee pass 
Ungreeted, and shall give its light 

embrace. 






22 



BRYANT. 




THE WEST WIND. 



Beneath the forest's skirt I rest, 
Whose branching pines rise dark 
and high, 

And hear the breezes of the West 
Among the thread-like foliage sigh. 

Sweet Zephyr! why that sound of 
woe? 
Is net thy home among the flow- 
ers? 
Do not the bright June roses blow, 
To meet thy kiss at morning hours? 

And lo! thy glorious realm out- 
spread — 
Ton stretching valleys, green and 

gay, 

And yon free hill-tops, o'er whose 
head 
The loose white clouds are borne 
away. 

And there the full broad river runs, 
And many a fount wells fresh and 
sweet, 



To cool thee when the mid-day suns 
Have made thee faint beneath their - 
heat. 

Thou wind of joy, and youth, and 
love ; 
Spirit of the new-wakened year ! 
The sun in his blue realm above 
Smooths a bright path when thou 
art here. 

In lawns the murmuring bee is heard, 

The wooing ring-dove in the shade; 

On thy soft breath, the new-fledged 

bird 

Takes wing, half happy, half 

afraid. 

Ah! thou art like our wayward 
race; — 
When not a shade of pain or ill 
Dims the bright smile of Nature's 
face, 
Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur 
still. 



23 



BRYANT. 





IIP- ; i i '' i Mil fli 




OCTOBER. 

At, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious hreath ! 
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, 
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, 

And the year smiles as it draws near its death. 
25 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 

"Wind of the sunny south ! oh, still delay- 
In the gay woods and in the golden air, 
Like to a good old age released from care, 

Journeying, in long serenity, away. 

In such a bright, late quiet, would that I 

Might wear out life like thee, mid bowers and brooks, 
And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, 

And music of kind voices ever nigh ; 
And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, 
Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. 



NOVEMBER. 



Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun! 

One mellow smile through the soft vapory air, 
Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run, 

Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare. 
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees, 

And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast, 
And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, 

Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. 
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee 

Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, 
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, 

And man delight to linger in thy ray. 
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear 
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air,, 
26 



BRYANT. 




A FOREST HYMN". 



The groves were God's first temples. 
Ere man learned 

To hew the shaft, and lay the archi- 
trave, 

And. spread the roof ahove them — 
ere he framed 

The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 

The sound of anthems; in the dark- 
ling wood, 

Amid the cool and silence, he knelt 
down, 



And offered to the Mightiest solemn 

thanks 
And supplication. For his simple 

heart 
Might not resist the sacred influence 
Which, from the stilly twilight of 

the place, 
And from the gray old trunks that 

high in heaven 
Mingled their mossy boughs, and 

from the sound 



27 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



Of the invisible breath that swayed 

at once 
All their green tops, stole over him, 

and bowed 
His spirit with tbe thought of bound- 
less power 
And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 
Should we, in the world's riper years, 

neglect 
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 
Only among the crowd, and under 

roofs 
That our frail hands have raised? 

Let me, at least, 
Here, Id the shadow of tMs aged wood, 
Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it 

find 
Acceptance in His ear. 

Father, thy hand 

Hath reared these venerable columns, 
thou 

Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou 
didst look down 

Upon the naked earth, and, forth- 
with, rose 

All these fair ranks of trees. They, 
in thy sun, 

Budded, and shook their green leaves 
in thy breeze. 

And shot toward heaven. The cen- 
tury-living crow 

Whose birth was in their tops, grew 
old and died 

Among their branches, till, at last, 
they stood, 

As now they stand, massy, and tall, 
and dark, 

Fit shrine for humble worshipper to 
hold 

Communion with his Maker. These 
dim vaults, 

These winding aisles, of human pomp 
or pride 



Report not. No fantastic carvings \\ 

show VI 

The boast of our vain race to change 

the form 
Of thy fair works. But thou art 

here — thou fill'st 
The solitude. Thou art in the soft 

winds 
That run along the summit of these 

trees 
In music; thou art in the cooler 

breath 
That from the inmost darkness of 

tbe place 
Comes, scarcely felt ; the harky 

trunks, the ground, 
The fresh moist ground, are all in- 
stinct with thee. 
Here is continual worship ; — Nature, 

here, 
In the tranquillity that thou dost love, 
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, 

around, 
From perch to perch, the solitary bird 
Passes; and yon clear spring, that, 

midst its herbs, 
Wells softly forth and wandering 

steeps the roots 
Of half the mighty forest, tells no 

tale 
Of all the good it does. Thou hast 

not left 
Thyself without a witness, in the 

shades, 
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, 

strength, and grace 
Are here to speak of thee. This 

mighty oak — 
By whose immovable stem I stand 

and seem 
Almost annihilated — not a prince, 
In all that proud old world beyond 

the deep, 
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 



28 



BRYANT. 



7ears the green coronal of leaves 

with which 
'hy hand has graced him. Nestled 

at his root 



Is beauty, such as blooms not in the 

glare 
Of the broad sun. That delicate 

forest flower, 




Vith scented breath and look so like 

a smile, 
>eems, as it issues from the shapeless 

mould, 



An emanation of the indwelling Life, 
A visible token of the upholding Love, 
That are the soul of this great uni- 
verse. 



29 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



My heart is awed within me when 

I think 
Of the great miracle that still goes on, 
In silence, round me — the perpetual 

work 
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
Forever. Written on thy works I read 
The lesson of thy own eternity. 
Lo! all grow old and die — but see 

again, 
How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
Youth presses— ever gay and beauti- 
ful youth 
In all its beautiful forms. These 

lofty trees 
Wave not less proudly that their 

ancestors 
Moulder beneath them. Oh, there 

is not lost 
One of earth's charms: upon her 

bosom yet, 
After the flight of untold centuries, 
The freshness of her far beginning lies 
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the 

idle hate 
Of his arch-enemy Death — yea, seats 

himself 
Upon the tyrant's throne — the sepul- 
chre, 
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
Makes his own nourishment. For he 

came forth 
From thine own bosom, and shall 

have no end. 

There have been holy men who 
hid themselves 
Deep in the woody wilderness, and 



Their lives to thought and prayer, 
» till they outlived 
The generation born with them, nor 
seemed 



Less aged than the hoary trees and 
rocks 

Around them ; — and there have been 
holy men 

Who deemed it were not well to pass 
life thus. 

But let me often to these solitudes 

Eetire, and in thy presence reassure 

My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, 

The passions, at thy plainer footsteps 
shrink 

And tremble and are still. God! 
when thou 

Dost scare the world with tempests, 
set on fire 

The heavens with falling thunder- 
bolts, or fill, 

With all the waters of the firmament, 

The swift dark whirlwind that up- 
roots the woods 

And drowns the villages; when, at 
thy call, 

Uprises the great deep and throws 
himself 

Upon the continent, and overwhelms 

Its cities — who forgets not, at the sight 

Of these tremendous tokens of thy 
power, 

His pride, and lays his strifes and 
follies by ? 

Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy 
face 

Spare me and mine, nor let us need 
the wrath 

Of the mad unchained elements to 
teach 

Who rules them. Be it ours to medi- 
tate, 

In these calm shades, thy milder 
majesty, 

And to the beautiful order of thyworks 

Learn to conform the order of our ( 
lives. 



30 



BRYANT. 




THE FIRMAMENT. 



At ! gloriously thou standest there, 

Beautiful, boundless firmament ! 
That, swelling wide o'er earth and 
air, 
And round the horizon bent, 
With thy bright vault, and sapphire 

wall, 
Dost overhang and circle all. 

Far, far below thee, tall gray trees 
Arise, and piles built up of old, 



And hills, whose ancient summits 
freeze 
In the fierce light and cold. 
The eagle soars his utmost height, 
Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight. 

Thou hast thy frowns — with thee on 
high 

The storm has made his airy seat, 
Beyond that soft blue curtain lie 

His stores of hail and sleet. 



31 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



Thence the consuming lightnings 

hreak, 
There the strong hurricanes awake. 

Yet art thou prodigal of smiles — 
Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are 
stern. 
Earth sends, from all her thousand 
isles, 
A shout at their return. 
The glory that comes down from thee, 
Bathes, in deep joy, the land and sea. 

The sun, the gorgeous sun is thine, 
The pomp that hrings and shuts the 
day, 
The clouds that round him change 
and shine, 
The airs that fan his way. 
Thence look the thoughtful stars, and 

there 
The meek moon walks the silent air. 



The sunny Italy may boast 

The beauteous tints that flush her 
skies, 
And lovely, round the Grecian coast, 

May thy blue pillars rise. 
I only know how fair they stand 
Around my own beloved land. 

And they are fair — a charm is theirs, 
That earth, the proud green earth, 
has not, 

"With all the forms, and hues, and airs, 
That haunt her sweetest spot. 

We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere, 

And read of Heaven's eternal year. 

Oh, when, amid the throng of men, 
The heart grows sick of hollow 
mirth, 

How willingly we turn us then 
Away from this cold earth, 

And look into thy azure breast, 

For seats of innocence and rest I 



Think not that thou and I 
Are here the only worshippers to-day, 

Beneath this glorious sky, 
Mid the soft airs that o'er the meadows play ; 

These airs, whose breathing stirs 
The fresh grass, are our fellow-worshippers. 

See, as they pass, they swing 
The censers of a thousand flowers that bend 

O'er the young herbs of spring, 
And the sweet odors like a prayer ascend, 

While, passing thence, the breeze 
Wakes the grave anthem of the forest-trees. 

From Ova Fellow -Wokshippees. 



M 



BRYANT. 




THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. 



Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, 
When our mother Nature laughs 
around ; 
When even the deep blue heavens 
look glad, 
And gladness breathes from the 
blossoming ground? 

There are notes of joy from the hang- 
bird and wren, 
And the gossip of swallows through 
all the sky ; 

3 



The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by 
his den. 
And the wilding bee hums merrily 

by. 

The clouds are at play in the azure 
space 
And their shadows at play on the 
bright- green vale, 
And here they stretch to the frolic 
chase, 
And there they roll on the easy gale. 



33 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



There's a dance of leaves in that 
aspen bower, 
There's a titter of winds in that 
beechen tree, 
There's a smile on the fruit, and a 
smile on the flower, 
And a laugh from the brook that 
runs to the sea. 



And look at the broad-faced sun, 
how he smiles 
On the dewy earth that smiles in 
his ray, 
On the leaping waters and gay young 
isles ; 
Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom 
away. 




"I BEOKE THE SPELL THAT HELD ME LONG." 



I broke the spell that held me long, 
The dear, dear witchery of song. 
I said, the poet's idle lore 
Shall waste my prime of years no 

more, 
For Poetry, though heavenly born, 
Consorts with poverty and scorn. 

I broke the spell — nor deemed its 

power 
Could fetter me another hour. 
Ah, thoughtless ! how could I forget 



Its causes were around me yet ? 
For wheresoe'er I looked, the while, 
Was Nature's everlasting smile. 

Still came and lingered on my sight 
Of flowers and streams the bloom 

and light, 
And glory of the stars and sun ; — 
And these and poetry are one. 
They, ere the world had held me 

long, 
Recalled me to the love of song. 



34 



BRYANT. 







MIDSUMMER. 



A power is on the earth and in the 
air 
From which the vital spirit shrinks 

afraid, 
And shelters him, in nooks of deep- 
est shade, 
From the hot steam and from the fiery 

glare. 
Look forth upon the earth — her thou- 
sand plants 
Are smitten; even the dark sun- 
loving maize 
Faints in the field beneath the tor- 
rid blaze; 



The herd beside the shaded fountain 

pants ; 
For life is driven from all the land- 
scape brown ; 
The bird has sought his tree, the 

snake his den, 
The trout floats dead in the hot 
stream, and men 
Drop by the sun-stroke in the popu- 
lous town ; 
As if the Day of Fire had dawned, 

and sent 
Its deadly breath into the firma- 
ment. 



35 



BRYANT. 




WILLIAM TELL. 



Chains may subdue the feeble spirit, 
but thee, 
Tell, of the iron heart ! they could 

not tame ! 
For thou wert of the mountains; 
they proclaim 
The everlasting creed of liberty. 
That creed is written on the un- 
trampled snow, 
Thundered by torrents which no 

power can hold, 
Save that of God, when He sends 
forth His cold, 



.57 



And breathed by winds that through 

the free heaven blow. 
Thou, while thy prison-walls were 
dark around, 
Didst meditate the lesson Nature 

taught, 
And to thy brief captivity was 
brought 
A vision of thy Switzerland unbound. 
The bitter cup they mingled, 

strengthened thee 
For the great work to set thy 
country free. 



BRYANT. 




TO THE FKINGED GENTIAN. 



Thou blossom bright with autumn 

dew, 
And colored with the heaven's own 

blue, 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night. 

Thou come'st not when violets lean 
O'er wandering brooks and springs 

unseen, 
Or columbines, in purple dressed, 
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden 

nest. 

Thou waitest late and com'st alone, 
When woods are bare and birds are 
flown, 



And frosts and shortening days por- 
tend 
The aged year is near his end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue — blue — as if that sky let 

fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall 

see 
The hour of death draw near to 

me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
May look to heaven as I depart. 



39 



BRYANT. 




"INNOCENT CHILD AND SNOW-WHITE FLOWER." 



Innocent child and snow - white 

flower ! 
Well are ye paired in your opening 

hour. 
Thus should the pure and the lovely 

meet, 
Stainless with stainless, and sweet 

with sweet. 

White as those leaves, just blown 

apart, 
Are the folds of thy own young 

heart ; 



Guilty passion and cankering care 
Never have left their traces there. 

Artless one! though thou gazest now 
O'er the white blossom with earnest 

brow, 
Soon will it tire thy childish eye ; 
Fair as it is, thou wilt throw it by. 

Throw it aside in thy weary hour, 
Throw to the ground the fair white 

flower ; 
Yet, as thy tender years depart, 
Keep that white and innocent heart 



41 



BRYANT. 




THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER. 



Wild was the day ; the wintry sea 
Moaned sadly on New-England's 
strand, 



When first the thoughtful and the 
free, 
Our fathers, trod the desert land. 



43 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



They little thought how pure a light, 
With years, should gather round 
that day ; 
How love should keep their memories 
bright, 
How wide a realm their sons should 
sway. 

Green are their bays ; but greener still 
Shall round their spreading fame 
be wreathed, 



And regions, now untrod, shall 
thrill 
With reverence when their names 
are breathed. 

Till where the sun, with softer 
fires, 
Looks on the vast Pacific's sleep, 
The children of the pilgrim sires 
This hallowed day like us shall 
keep. 



"THOU, GOD, SEEST ME." 

When this song of praise shall cease, 
Let thy children, Lord, depart 

With the blessing of thy peace 
And thy love in every heart. 

Oh, where'er our path may lie, 

Father, let us not forget 
That we walk beneath thine eye, 

That thy care upholds us yet. 

Blind are we, and weak, and frail. 

Be thine aid forever near; 
May the fear to sin prevail 
Over every other fear„ 
44 






BET ANT. 




SEVENTY-SIX. 



What heroes from the woodland 
sprung, 
When, through the fresh-awakened 
land, 
The thrilling cry of freedom rung 
And to the work of warfare strung 
The yeoman's iron hand ! 



Hills flung the cry to hills around, 
And ocean - mart replied to 
mart, 
And streams, whose springs were yet 

unfound, 
Pealed far away the startling sound 
Into the forest's heart. 



45 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



Then marched the brave from rocky 
steep, 

From mountain-river swift and cold; 
The borders of the stormy deep, 
The vales where gathered waters sleep, 

Sent up the strong and bold, — 

As if the very earth again 

Grew quick with God's creating 
breath, 
And, from the sods of grove and glen, 
Rose ranks of lion-hearted men 

To battle to the death. 

The wife, whose babe first smiled 
that day, 
The fair fond bride of yestereve, 



And aged sire and matron gray, 
Saw the loved warriors haste away, 
And deemed it sin to grieve. 

Already had the strife begun ; 

Already blood, on Concord's plain, 
Along the springing grass had run, 
And blood had flowed at Lexington, 

Like brooks of April rain. 

That death - stain on the vernal 
sward 
Hallowed to freedom all the 
shore ; 
In fragments fell the yoke abhorred — 
The footstep of a foreign lord 
Profaned the soil no more. 



THE BATTLE OF BENNINGTON. 



Ojst this fair valley's grassy breast 
The calm, sweet rays of summer rest, 
And dove-like peace divinely broods 
On its smooth lawns and solemn 
woods. 

A century since, in flame and smoke, 
The storm of battle o'er it broke; 
And ere the invader turned and fled, 
These pleasant fields were strown 
with dead. 

Stark, quick to act and bold to dare, 
And Warner's mountain band were 

there ; 
And Allen, who had flung the pen 
Aside to lead the Berkshire men. 

With fiery onset — blow on blow — 
They rushed upon the embattled foe, 



And swept his squadrons from the 

vale, 
Like leaves before the autumn gale. 

Oh ! never may the purple stain 
Of combat blot these fields again, 
Nor this fair valley ever cease 
To wear the placid smile of peace. 

But we, beside this battle-field, 
Will plight the vow that ere we yield 
The right for which our fathers bled, 
Our blood shall steep the ground we 
tread. 

And men shall hold the memory dear 
Of those who fought for freedom 

here, 
And guard the heritage they won 
While these green hill- sides feel the 

sun. 



46 









BRYANT. 




?m 



THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 



Here are old trees, tall oaks, and 

gnarled pines, 
That stream with gray-green mosses ; 

here the ground 



Was never trenched by spade, and 

flowers spring up 
Unsown, and die ungathered. It is 

sweet 



47 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



To linger here, among the flitting birds 
And leaping squirrels, wandering 

brooks, and winds 
That shake the leaves, and scatter, 

as they pass, 
A fragrance from the cedars, thickly 

set 
With pale -blue berries. In these 

peaceful shades — 
Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably 

old— 
My thoughts go up the long dim 

path of years, 
Back to the earliest days of liberty. 

O Feeedom ! thou art not, as poets 

dream, 
A fair young girl, with light and 

delicate limbs, 
And wavy tresses gushing from the 

cap 
With which the Koman master 

crowned his slave 



Have forged thy chain ; yet, while he 
deems thee bound, 

The links are shivered, and the 
prison- walls 

Fall outward ; terribly thou springest 
forth, 

As springs the flame above a burning 
pile, 

And shoutest to the nations, who 
return 

Thy shoutings, while the pale op- 
pressor flies. 

Thy birthright was not given by 

human hands: 
Thou wert twin-born with man. In 

pleasant fields, 
While yet our race was few, thou 

sat'st with him, 
To tend the quiet flock and watch 

the stars, 
And teach the reed to utter simple 

airs. 



When he took off the gyves. A ! Thou by his side, amid the tangled 



bearded man, 



wood, 



Armed to the teeth, art thou; one I Didst war upon the panther and the 



mailed hand 
Grasps the broad shield, and one the 

sword ; thy brow, 
Glorious in beauty though it be, is 

scarred 
With tokens of old wars ; thy massive 

limbs 
Are strong with struggling. Power 

at thee has launched 
His bolts, and with his lightnings 

smitten thee ; 
They coidd not quench the life thou 

hast from heaven ; 
Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon 

deep, 
And his swart armorers, by a thou- 
sand fires, 



wolf, 

His only foes; and thou with him 
didst draw 

The earliest furrow on the mountain- 
side, 

Soft with the deluge. Tyranny him- 
self, 

Thy enemy, although of reverend 
look, 

Hoary with many years, and far 
obeyed, 

Is later born than thou; and as he 
meets 

The grave defiance of thine elder 
eye, 

The usurper trembles in his fast- 
nesses. 



48 



BRYANT. 



Thou shalt wax stronger with the 

lapse of years, 
But he shall fade into a feebler 

age- 
Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave 

his snares, 



And spring them on thy careless 

steps, and clap 
His withered hands, and from their 

ambush call 
His hordes to fall upon tbee. He 

shall send 




Quaint maskers, wearing fair and 
gallant forms 

To catch thy gaze, and uttering grace- 
ful words 

To charm thy ear; while his sly imps 
by stealth, 



That grow to fetters ; or bind down 

thy arms 
With chains concealed in chaplets. 

Oh ! not yet 
Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor 

lay by 



Twine round thee threads of steel, Thy sword; nor yet, Freedom! 
light thread on thread, close thy lids 

4 49 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



In slumber; for thine enemy never 

sleeps, 
And thou must watch and combat 

till the day 
Of the new earth and heaven. But 

wouldst thou rest 
Awhile from tumult and the frauds 

of men, 



These old and friendly solitudes invite 
Thy visit. They, while yet the for- 
est-trees 
Were youngupon the un violated earth, 
And yet the moss-stains on the rock 

were new, 
Beheld thy glorious childhood, and 
rejoiced. 



60 



BRYANT. 




THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER. 



It was a hundred years ago, 
When, by the woodland ways, 

The traveller saw the wild - deer 
drink, 
Or crop the birchen sprays. 

Beneath a hill, whose rocky side 
O'erbrowed a grassy mead, 

And fenced a cottage from the 
wind, 
A deer was wont to feed. 

She only came when on the cliffs 
The evening moonlight lay, 



And no man knew the secret haunts 
In which she walked by day. 

White were her feet, her forehead 
showed 

A spot of silvery white, 
That seemed to glimmer like a star 

In autumn's hazy night. 

And here, when sang the whippoor will, 
She cropped the sprouting leaves, 

And here her rustling steps were 
heard 
On still October eves. 



51 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



But ■when the broad midsummer moon 
Kose o'er that grassy lawn, 

Beside the silver-footed deer 
There grazed a spotted fawn. 

The cottage dame forbade her son 

To aim the rifle here ; 
" It were a sin," she said, " to harm 

Or fright that friendly deer. 

" This spot has been my pleasant home 
Ten peaceful years and more ; 

And ever, when the moonlight shines, 
She feeds before our door. 

"The red -men say that here she 
walked 
A thousand moons ago ; 
They never raise the war - whoop 
here, 
And never twang the bow. 

" I love to watch her as she feeds, 

And think that all is well 
While such a gentle creature haunts 

The place in which we dwell." 

The youth obeyed, and sought for 
game 

In forests far away, 
Where, deep in silence and in moss, 

The ancient woodland lay. 

But once, in autumn's golden time 
He ranged the wild iri vain, 



Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer, 
And wandered home again. 

The crescent moon and crimson eve 
Shone with a mingling light ; 

The deer, upon the grassy mead, 
Was feeding full in sight. 

He raised the rifle to his eye, 
And from the cliffs around 

A sudden echo, shrill and sharp, 
Gave back its deadly sound. 

Away, into the neighboring wood, 
The startled creature flew, 

And crimson drops at morning lay 
Amid the glimmering dew. 

Next evening shone the waxing 
moon 

As brightly as before ; 
The deer upon the grassy mead 

Was seen again no more. 

But ere that crescent moon was 
old, 

By night the red-men came, 
And burnt the cottage to the ground, 

And slew the youth and dame. 

Now woods have overgrown the 
mead, 
And hid the cliffs from sight ; 
There shrieks the hovering hawk at 
noon, 
And prowls the fox at night. 



52 






BRYANT. 




% \\W& 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 



A mighty realm is the Land of And the nearer mountains catch the 



Dreams, 

With steeps that hang in the twi- 
light sky, 
And weltering oceans and trailing 
streams, 

That gleam where the dusky valleys 
lie. 

But over its shadowy border flow 
Sweet rays from the world of end- 
less morn, 



glow, 
And flowers in the nearer fields 
are horn. 

The souls of the happy dead repair, 
From their bowers of light, to that 
bordering land, 
And walk in the fainter glory 
there, 
With the souls of the living hand 
in hand. 



53 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



One calm sweet smile, in that shad- 
owy sphere, 
From eyes that open on earth no 
more — 
One warning word from a voice once 
dear — 
How they rise in the memory o'er 
and o'er ! 

Far off from those hills that shine 
with day 



The tears on whose cheeks are but 
the shower 
That freshens the blooms of early 
May! 

Thine eyes are closed, and over thy 
brow 
Pass thoughtful shadows and joy- 
ous gleams, 

And I know, by thy moving lips, that 
now 



And fields that bloom in the I Thy spirit strays in the Land of 



heavenly gales, 
The Land of Dreams goes stretching 
away 
To dimmer mountains and darker 
vales. 

There lie the chambers of guilty de- 
light, 
There walk the specters of guilty 
fear, 
And soft low voices, that float 
through the night, 
Are whispering sin in the helpless 
ear. 

Dear maid, in thy girlhood's opening 
flower, 
Scarce weaned from the love of 
childish play ! 



Dreams. 

Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy 
feet! 
O keep where that beam of Para- 
dise falls : 
And only wander where thou mayst 
meet 
The blessed ones from its shining 
walls ! 

So shalt thou come from the Land of 
Dreams, 
With love and peace to this world 
of strife : 
And the light which over that border 
streams 
Shall lie on the path of thy daily 
life. 



54 



BRYANT. 




THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE. 



Come, let us plant the apple-tree. 
Cleave the tough greensward with 

the spade ; 
Wide let its hollow hed he made ; 
There gently lay the roots, and there 
Sift the dark mould with kindly 
care, 

And press it o'er them tenderly, 
As, round the sleeping infant's feet, 
We softly fold the cradle-sheet ; 

So plant we the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree ? 

Buds, which the breath of summer 
days 

Shall lengthen into leafy sprays ; 

Boughs where the thrush, with crim- 
son breast, 

Shall haunt and sing and hide her 
nest; 



We plant, upon the sunny lea, 
A shadow for the noontide hour, 
A shelter from the summer shower, 

When we plant the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree? 
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs 
To load the May - wind's restless 

wings, 
When, from the orchard - row, he 

pours 
Its fragrance through our open doors ; 

A world of blossoms for the bee, 
Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, 
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, 

We plant with the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree ? 
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, 
And redden in the August noon, 



55 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



And drop, when gentle airs come by, 
That fan the blue September sky, 
While children come, with cries of 
glee, 
And seek them where the fragrant 

grass 
Betrays their bed to those who pass, 
At the foot of the apple-tree. 

And when, above this apple-tree, 
The winter stars are quivering bright, 
And winds go howling through the 

night, 
Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow 

with mirth, 
Shall peel its fruit by cottage - 
hearth, 
And guests in prouder homes shall 
see, 
Heaped with the grape of Cintra's 

vine 
And golden orange of the line, 
The fruit of the apple-tree. 

The fruitage of this apple-tree 
Winds and our flag of stripe and star 
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, 
Where men shall wonder at the 

view, 
And ask in what fair groves they 
grew ; 
And sojourners beyond the sea 
Shall think of childhood's careless day, 
And long, long hours of summer 
play, 
In the shade of the apple-tree. 



Each year shall give this apple-tree 
A broader flush of roseate bloom, 
A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, 
And loosen, when the frost-clouds 

lower, 
The crisp brown leaves in thicker 
shower. 
The years shall come and pass, but 
we 
Shall hear no longer, where we lie, 
The summer's songs,the autumn's sigh, 
In the boughs of the apple-tree. 

And time shall waste this apple-tree. 
Oh, when its aged branches throw 
Thin shadows on the ground below, 
Shall fraud and force and iron will 
Oppress the weak and helpless still? 

What shall the tasks of mercy be, 
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears 
Of those who live when length of 
years 

Is wasting this little apple-tree ? 

"Who planted this old apple- 
tree?" 
The children of that distant day 
Thus to some aged man sball say; 
And, gazing on its mossy stem, 
The gray-haired man shall answer 
them: 
" A poet of the land was he, 
Born in the rude but good old times ; 
'Tis said he made some quaint old 
rhymes, 
On planting the apple-tree." 



56 



BRYANT. 




THE SNOW-SHOWER. 



Stand here by my side and turn, I 
pray, 
On the lake below, thy gentle 
eyes; 



The clouds hang over it, heavy and 
gray, 
And dark and silent the water 
lies; 



51 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



And out of that frozen mist the snow 
In wavering flakes begins to flow ; 
Flake after flake 
They sink in the dark and silent lake. 
See how in a living swarm they 
come 
From the chambers beyond that 
misty veil ; 
Some hover awhile in air, and some 
Rush prone from tbe sky like sum- 
mer hail. 
All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, 
Meet, and are still in the depths be- 
low; 

Flake after flake 
Dissolved in the dark and silent lake. 
Here delicate snow-stars, out of the 
cloud, 
Come floating downward in airy 

play, 

like spangles dropped from the 

glistening crowd 
That whiten by night the milky 

way; 
There broader and burlier masses 

fall; 
'The sullen water buries them all — 

Flake after flake — 
All drowned in the dark and silent 

lake. 

.And some, as on tender wings they 

glide 
From their chilly birth-cloud, dim 

and gray, 
Are joined in their fall, and, side by 

side, 
Come clinging along their unsteady 

way; 
As friend with friend, or husband 

with wife, 
Makes hand in hand the passage of 

life; 



Each mated flake 
Soon sinks in the dark and silent 
lake. 

Lo ! while we are gazing, in swifter 
haste 
Stream down the snows, till the 
air is white, 
As, myriads by myriads madly chased, 
They fling themselves from their 
shadowy height. 
The fair, frail creatures of middle 

sky, 
What speed they make, with their 
graves so nigh ; 

Flake after flake, 
To lie in the dark and silent lake! 

I see in thy gentle eyes a tear ; 

They turn to me in sorrowful 
thought; 
Thou thinkest of friends, the good 
and dear, 
Who were for a time, and now are 
not; 
Like these fair children of cloud and 

frost, 
That glisten a moment and then are 
lost, 

Flake after flake — 
All lost in the dark and silent lake. 

Yet look again, for the clouds divide: 
A gleam of blue on the water lies; 
And far away, on the mountain-side, 
A sunbeam falls from the opening 
skies, 
But the hurrying host that flew be- 
tween 
The cloud and the water, no more is 
seen; 

Flake after flake, 
At rest in the dark and silent lake. 



58 



BRYANT. 




ROBERT OF LINCOLN". 



Merrily swinging on brier and weed, 
Near to the nest of his little dame, 
Over the mountain-side or mead, 
Robert of Lincoln is telling his 
name: 

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 



Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 
Hidden among the summer flowers. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, 
Wearing a bright black wedding- 
coat; 



59 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



"White are his shoulders and white 
Lis crest. 
Hear him call in his merry note : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
Look, what a nice new coat is mine, 
Sure there was never a bird so fine. 
Ohee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, 
Pretty and quiet, witb plain brown 
wings, 
Passing at home a patient life, 

Broods in the grass while her hus- 
band sings: 

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
Brood, kind creature; you need not 

fear 
Thieves and robbers while I am here. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Modest and shy as a nun is she ; 

One weak chirp is her only note. 
Braggart and prince of braggarts is 
he, 
Pouring boasts from his little 
throat : 

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Never was I afraid of man ; 
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you 
can! 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, 
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ! 

There as the mother sits all day, 
Robert is singing with all his might : 



Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 

Spink, spank, spink; 
Nice good wife, that never goes out, 
Keeping house while I frolic about. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Soon as the little ones chip the shell, 
Six wide mouths are open for food ; 
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, 
Gathering seeds for the hungry 
brood. 

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
This new life is likely to be 
Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln at length is made 
Sober with work, and silent with 
care; 
Off is his holiday garment laid, 
Half forgotten that merry air : 
Bob-o' link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
Nobody knows but my mate and I 
Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Summer wanes; the children are 
grown; 
Fun and frolic no more he knows ; 
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; 
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
When you can pipe that merry old 

strain, 
Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 
Chee, chee, chee. 



60 



BRYANT. 




A SONG- FOR NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 



Stat yet, my friends, a moment stay — 
Stay till the good old year, 

So long companion of our way, 
Shakes hands, and leaves us here. 
Oh stay, oh stay, 

One little hour, and then away. 

The year, whose hopes were high 
and strong, 
Has now no hopes to wake; 
Yet one hour more of jest and song 
For his familiar sake. 

Oh stay, oh stay, 
One mirthful hour, and then away. 

The kindly year, his liberal hands 

Have lavished all his store. 
And shall we turn from where he 
stands, 
Because he gives no more ? 
Oh stay, oh stay, 
One grateful hour, and then away. 



Days hrightly came and calmly went, 
While yet he was our guest; 

How cheerfully the week was spent ! 
How sweet the seventh day's rest ! 
Oh stay, oh stay, 

One golden hour, and then away. 

Dear friends were with us, some who 
sleep 
Beneath the coffin-lid: 
What pleasant memories we keep 
Of all they said and did ! 
Oh stay, oh stay, 
One tender hour, and then away. 

Even while we sing, he smiles his 
last, 
And leaves our sphere hehind. 
The gpod old year is with the past ; 
Oh be the new as kind! 
Oh stay, oh stay, 
One parting strain, and then away. 



61 



BRYANT. 




THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 



Alice. — One of your old - world 

stories, Uncle John, 
Such as you tell us hy the winter 

fire, 
Till we all wonder it is grown so 

late. 
Uncle John. — The story of the 

witch that ground to death 
Two children in her mill, or will you 

have 
The tale of Goody Outpurse ? 

Alice. — Nay now, nay; 

Those stories are too childish, Uncle 

John, 
Too childish even for little Willy 

here, 
And I am older, two good years, than 

he; 



No, let us have a tale of elves that. 

ride, 
By night, with jingling reins, or- 

gnomes of the mine, 
Or water-fairies, such as you know 

how 
To spin, till Willy's eyes forget to< 

wink, 
And good Aunt Mary, husy as she is, . 
Lays down her knitting. 

Uncle John. — Listen to me, then.. 
'Twas in the olden time, long, long ago, 
And long before the great oak at our 

door 
Was yet an acorn, on a mountain's 

side 
Lived, with his wife, a cottager.. 

They dwelt 



63 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS, 



Beside a glen and near a dashing 

brook, 
A pleasant spot in spring, where first 

the wren 
Was heard to chatter, and, among the 

grass, 
Flowers opened earliest; but when 

winter came, 
That little brook was fringed with 

other flowers, — 
White flowers, with crystal leaf and 

stem, that grew 



In clear November nights. And, 

later still, 
That mountain-glen was filled with 

drifted snows 
From side to side, that one might 

walk across ; 
While, many a fathom deep, below, 

the brook 
Sang to itself, and leaped and trotted 

on 
Unfrozen, o'er its pebbles, toward 

the vale. 




Alice. — A mountain-side, you said; 
the Alps, perhaps, 
Or our own Alleghanies. 

Uncle John. — Not so fast, 



My young geographer, for then the 

Alps, 
With their broad pastures, haply 

were untrod 



64 



BRYANT. 



Of herdsman's foot, and never human 

voice 
Had sounded in the woods that over- 



Our Alleghany's streams. I think it 

was 
Upon the slopes of the great Caucasus, 
Or where the rivulets of Ararat 




1 Seek the Armenian vales. That 

mountain rose 
So high, that, on its top, the winter- 
snow 
I Was never melted, and the cottagers 
Among the summer-blossoms, far be- 
I low, 

Saw its white peaks in August from 
their door. 
One little maiden, in that cottage- 
home, 
Dwelt with her parents, light of heart 

and limb, 
Bright, restless, thoughtless, flitting 

here and there, 
Like sunshine on the uneasy ocean- 
waves, 
And sometimes she forgot what she 

was bid, 
As Alice does. 
Alice. — Or Willy, quite as oft. 
Uncle John, — But you are older, 
Alice, two good years, 
And should be wiser. Eva was the 

name 
Of this young maiden, now twelve 
summers old. 

5/ 65 



Now yon must know that, in those 

early times, 
When autumn days grew pale, there 

came a troop 
Of childlike forms from that cold 

mountain -top ; 
With trailing garments through the 

air they came, 
Or walked the ground with girded 

loins, and threw 
Spangles of silvery frost upon the grass, 
And edged the brooks with glistening 

parapets, 
And built it crystal bridges, touched 

the pool, 
And turned its face to glass, or, rising 

thence, 
They shook from their full laps the 

soft, light snow, 
And buried the great earth, as 

autumn winds 
Bury the forest - floor in heaps of 

leaves. 
A beautiful race were they, with 

baby brows, 
And fair, bright locks, and voices 

like the sound 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTEuRS. 



Of steps on the crisp snow, in which 

they talked 
With man, as friend with friend. A 

merry sight 
It was, when, crowding round the 

traveller, 



They smote him with their heaviest 

snow-flakes, flung 
Needles of frost in handfuls at his 

cheeks, 
And, of the light wreaths of his 

smoking breath, 




Wove a white fringe for his brown 

beard, and laughed 
Their slender laugh to see him wink 

and grin 
And make grim faces as he floundered 

on. 
But, when the spring came on. 

what terror reigned 



Among these Little People of the 

Snow ! 
To them the sun's warm beams were 

shafts of fire, 
And the soft south-wind was the 

wind of death. 
Away they flew, all with a pretty 

scowl 



66 



BRYANT. 



Upon their childish faces, to the 
north, 

Or scampered upward to the moun- 
tain's top, 

And there defied their enemy, the 
Spring ; 

Skipping and dancing on the frozen 



And moulding little snow - balls in 

their palms, 
And rolling them, to crush her 

flowers below, 
Down the steep snow-fields. 

Alice. — That, too, must have been 
A merry sight to look at. 

Uncle John. — You are right, 




But I must speak of graver matters 

now. 
Midwinter was the time, and Eva 

stood, 
Within the cottage, all prepared to 

dare 
The outer cold, with ample furry 

robe 
Close - belted round her waist, and 

boots of fur, 



And a broad kerchief, which her 

mother's hand 
Had closely drawn about her ruddy 

cheek. 
"Now, stay not long abroad," said 

the good dame, 
"For sharp is the outer air, and, 

mark me well, 
Go not upon the snow beyond the 

spot 



67 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD A UTHORS. 



Where the great linden bounds the 

neighboring field." 
The little maiden promised, and 

went forth, 
And climbed the rounded snow-swells 

firm with frost 
Beneath her feet, and slid, with bal- 
ancing arms, 
Into the hollows. Once, as up a drift 
She slowly rose, before her, in the 

way, 
She saw a little creature, lily-cheeked, 
With flowing flaxen. locks, and faint 

blue eyes, 
That gleamed like ice, and robe that 

only seemed 
Of a more shadowy whiteness than 

her cheek. 
On a smooth bank she sat. 

Alice. — She must have been 

One of your Little People of the 

Snow. 
Uncle John. — She was so, and, as 

Eva now drew near, 
The tiny creature bounded from her 

seat; 
"And come," she said, "my pretty 

friend; to-day 
We will be playmates. I have 

watched thee long, 
And seen how well thou lov'st to 

walk these drifts, 
And scoop their fair sides into little 

cells, 
And carve them with quaint figures, 

huge-limbed men, 
Lions, and griffins. We will have, 

to-day, 
A merry ramble over these bright 

fields, 
And thou shalt see what thou hast 

never seen." 
On went the pair, until they reached 

the bound 



Where the great linden stood, set 

deep in snow, 
Up to the lower branches. " Here 

we stop," 
Said Eva, " for my mother has my 

word 
That I will go no farther than this 

tree." 
Then the snow - maiden laughed : 

" And what is this? 
This fear of the pure snow, the 

innocent snow, 
That never harmed aught living? 

Thou mayst roam 
For leagues beyond this garden, and 

return 
In safety ; here the grim wolf never 

prowls, 
And here the eagle of our mountain- 
crags 
Preys not in winter. I will show 

the way, 
And bring thee safely home. Thy 

mother, sure, 
Counselled thee thus because thou 

hadst no guide." 
By such smooth words was Eva 

won to break 
Her promise, and went on with her 

new friend, 
Over the glistening snow and down a 

bank 
Where a white shelf, wrought by the 

eddying wind, 
Like to a billow's crest in the great 

sea, 
Curtained an opening. " Look, we 

enter here." 
And straight, beneath the fair o'er- 

hanging fold, 
Entered the little pair that hill of 

snow, 
Walking along a passage with white 

walls, 



68 



BRYANT. 



And a white vault above where 

snow-stars shed 
A wintry twilight. Eva moved in 

awe. 



And held her peace, but the snow- 
maiden smiled, 

And talked and tripped along, as, 
down the way, 




Deeper they went into that moun- 
tainous drift. 
And now the white walls widened, 
and the vault 

Swelled upward, like some vast cathe- 
dral-dome, 



Such as the Florentine, who bore the 

name 
Of heaven's most potent angel, 

reared, long since, 
Or the unknown builder ot that 

wondrous fane, 



69 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



The glory of Burgos. Here a garden 

lay, 
In which the Little People of the Snow 
Were wont to take their pastime 

when their tasks 
Upon the mountain's side and in the 

clouds 
Were ended. Here they taught the 

silent frost 
To mock, in stem and spray, and leaf 

and flower, 
The growths of summer. Here the 

palm upreared 
Its white columnar trunk and spotless 

sheaf 
Of plume -like leaves; here cedars, 

huge as those 
Of Lebanon, stretched far their level 

houghs, 
Yet pale and shadowless; the sturdy 

oak 
Stood, with its huge gnarled roots of 

seeming strength, 
Fast anchored in the glistening hank ; 

light sprays 
Of myrtle, roses in their bud and 

bloom, 
Drooped by the winding walks ; yet 

all seemed wrought 
Of stainless alabaster ; up the trees 
Ran the lithe jessamine, with stalk 

and leaf 
Colorless as her flowers. " Go softly 

on," 
Said the snow-maiden; "touch not, 

with thy hand, 
The frail creation round thee, and 

beware 
To sweep it with thy skirts. Now 

look above. 
How sumptuously these bowers are 

lighted up 
With shifting gleams that softly come 

and go ! 



These are the northern lights, such 

as thou seest 
In the midwinter nights, cold, wan- 
dering flames, 
That float with our processions, 

through the air ; 
And here, within our winter palaces, 
Mimic the glorious daybreak." Then 

she told 
How, when the wind, in the long 

winter nights, 
Swept the light snows into the hollow 

dell, 
She and her comrades guided to its 

place 
Each wandering flake, and piled them 

quaintly up, 
In shapely colonnade and glistening 

arch, 
With shadowy aisles between, or 

bade them grow, 
Beneath their little hands, to bowery 

walks 
In gardens such as these, and, o'er 

them all, 
Built the broad roof. "But thou 

hast yet to see 
A fairer sight," she said, and led the 

way 
To where a window of pellucid ice 
Stood in the wall of snow, beside 

their path. 
"Look, but thou mayst not enter." 

Eva looked, 
And lo ! a glorious hall, from whose 

high vault 
Stripes of soft light, ruddy and 

delicate green, 
And tender blue, flowed downward 

to the floor 
And far around, as if the aerial 

hosts, 
That march on high by night, with 

beamy spears, 



70 



BRYANT. 



And streaming banners, to that place 

had brought 
Their radiant flags to grace a festival. 
And in that hall a joyous multitude 
Of those by whom its glistening walls 

were reared. 



Whirled in a merry dance to silver) 
sounds, 

That rang from cymbals of trans- 
parent ice, 

And ice-cups, quivering to the skilful 
touch 




Of little fingers. Eound and round 

they flew, 
As when, in spring, about a chimney- 
top, 
A cloud of twittering swallows, just 

returned, 
Wheel round and round, and turn 

and wheel again, 
Unwinding their swift track. So 

rapidly 
Flowed the meandering stream of 

that fair dance, 
Beneath that dome of light. Bright 

eyes that looked 
From under lily-brows, and gauzy 

scarfs 
Sparkling like snow-wreaths in the 

early sun, 
Shot by the window in their mazy 

whirl. 



And there st<»od Eva, wondering at 

the sight 
Of those bright revellers and that 

graceful sweep 
Of motion as they passed her; — long 

she gazed, 
And listened long to the sweet 

sounds that thrilled 
The frosty air, till now the encroach- 
ing cold 
Recalled her to herself. " Too long, 

too long 
I linger here," she said, and then she 

sprang 
Into the path, and with a hurried 

step 
Followed it upward. Ever by her 

side 
Her little guide sept pace. As on 

they went, 



71 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 

What 



Eva bemoaned her fault 

must they think — 
The dear ones in the cottage, while 

so long, 
Hour after hour, I stay without? I 

know 
That they will seek me far and near, 

and weep 



To find me not. How could I, 

wickedly, 
Neglect the charge they gave me?" 

As she spoke, 
The hot tears started to her eyes; 

she knelt 
In the mid-path. "Father! forgive 

this sin : 




BRYANT. 



Forgive myself I cannot " — thus she 

prayed, 
And rose and hastened onward. 

When, at last, 
They reached the outer air, the clear 

north breathed 
A bitter cold, from which sbe shrank 

with dread, 



But the snow-maiden bounded as she- 
felt 

The cutting blast, and uttered shouts 
of joy, 

And skipped, with boundless glee, 
from drift to drift, 

And danced round Eva, as she labored 
up 




The mounds of snow. "Ah me! I 

feel my eyes 
Grow heavy," Eva said; "they swim 

with sleep ; 
I cannot walk for utter weariness, 
And I must rest a moment on this 

bank, 
But let it not be long." As thus she 

spoke, 
In half formed words, she sank on 

the smooth snow, 
With closing lids. Her guide com- 
posed the robe 
About her limbs, and said: "A 

pleasant spot 
Is this to slumber in ; on such a couch 
Oft have I slept away the winter 

night, 
And had the sweetest dreams." So 

Eva slept, 
But slept in death ; for when the 

power of frost 



Locks up the motions of the living 

frame, 
The victim passes to the realm of 

Death 
Through the dim porch of Sleep. 

The little guide, 
Watching beside her, saw the hues of 

life 
Fade from the fair smooth brow and 

rounded cheek, 
As fades the crimson from a morning 

cloud, 
Till they were white as marble, and 

the breath 
Had ceased to come and go, yet knew 

she not 
At first that this was death. But 

when she marked 
How deep the paleness was, how 

motionless 
That once lithe form, a fear came 

over her. 



73 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



She strove to wake the sleeper, 
plucked her robe, 

And shouted in her ear, but all in 
vain ; 

The life had passed away from those 
young limbs. 

Then the snow-maiden raised a wail- 
ing cry, 

Such as the dweller in some lonely 
wild, 

Sleepless through all the long Decem- 
ber night, 

Hears when the mournful east begins 
to blow. 
But suddenly was heard the sound 
of steps, 



Grating on the crisp snow ; the cot- 
tagers 
Were seeking Eva; from afar they 

saw 
The twain, and hurried toward them. 

As they came 
With gentle chidings ready on their 

lips, 
And marked that deathlike sleep, and 

heard the tale 
Of the snow-maiden, mortal anguish 

fell 
Upon their hearts, and bitter words 

of grief 
And blame were uttered : " Cruel, 

cruel one, 




To tempt our daughter thus, and 

cruel we, 
Who suffered her to wander forth 

alone 
In this fierce cold ! " They lifted the 

dear child, 
And bore her home and chafed her 

tender limbs, 
And strove, by all the simple arts 

they knew, 
To make the chilled blood move, and 

win the breath 
Back to her bosom ; fruitlessly they 

strove ; 
The little maid was dead. In blank 
ir 



They stood, and gazed at her who 

never more 
Should look on them. " Why die we 

not with her? " 
They said ; " without her, life is 

bitterness." 
Now came the funeral-day ; the 

simple folk 
Of all that pastoral region gathered 

round 
To share the sorrow of the cot- 
tagers. 
They carved a. way into the mound of 

snow 
To the glen's side, and dug a little 

grave 



74 



BRYANT. 



In the smooth slope, and, following 

the bier, 
In long procession from the silent door, 
Chanted a sad and solemn melody : 



" Lay her away to rest within the 
ground. 
Yea, lay her down whose pure and 
innocent life 




Was spotless as these snows; for she 

was reared 
In love, and passed, in love life's 

pleasant spring, 



And. all that now our tenderest love 

can do 
Is to give burial to her lifeless 

limbs." 



75 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 






They paused. A thousand slender 

voices round, 
Like echoes softly flung from rock 

and hill, 
Took up the strain, and all the 

hollow air 
Seemed mourning for the dead ; for, 

on that day, 
The Little People of the Snow had 

come, 
From mountain-peak, and cloud, and 

icy hall, 
To Eva's burial. As the murmur died, 
The funeral-train renewed the solemn 

chant : 
"Thou, Lord, hast taken her to be 

with Eve, 
Whose gentle name was given her. 

Even so, 
For so Thy wisdom saw that it was 

best 
For her and us. We bring our bleed- 
ing hearts, 
And ask the touch of healing from 

Thy hand, 
As, with submissive tears, we render 

back 
The lovely and beloved to Him who 



They ceased. Again the plaintive 

murmur rose. 
From shadowy skirts of low-hung 

cloud it came, 
And wide white fields, and fir-trees 

capped with snow, 
Shivering to the sad sounds. They 

sank away 
To silence in the dim-seen distant 

woods. 



The little grave was closed ; the 

funeral-train 
Departed ; winter wore away ; the 

Spring 
Steeped, with her quickening rains, 

the violet-tufts, 
By fond hands planted where the 

maiden slept. 
But, after Eva's burial, never more 
The Little People of the Snow were 

seen 
By human eye, nor ever human 

ear 
Heard from their lips articulate 

speech again; 
For a decree went forth to cut them 

off, 
Forever, from communion with man- 
kind. 

The winter-clouds, along the moun- 
tain-side, 
Rolled downward toward the vale 

but no fair form 
Leaned from their folds, and, in the 

icy glens, 
And aged woods, under snow-loaded 

pines, 
Where once they made their haunt, 

was emptiness. 
But ever, when the wintry days 

drew near, 
Around that little grave, in the long 

night, 
Frost-wreaths were laid and tufts of 

silvery rime 
In shape like blades and blossoms of 

the field, 
As one would scatter flowers upon a 

bier. 



76 



: 



BRYANT. 



ABEAHAM LINCOLN". 

Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, 
Gentle and merciful and just ! 

Who, in the fear of God, didst bear 
The sword of power, a nation's trustJ 

In sorrow by thy bier we stand, 
Amid the awe that hushes all, 

And speak the anguish of a land 
That shook with horror at thy fall. 

Thy task is done; the bond are free: 
We bear thee to an honored grave, 

Whose proudest monument shall be 
The broken fetters of the slave. 

Pure was thy life ; its bloody close 

Hath placed thee with the sons of light ? 

Among the noble host of those 
Who perished in the cause of Eight. 

n 



BRYANT. 



A LEGEND OF ST. MARTIN". 



Sheewd was the good St. Martin; he 
was famed 
For sly expedients and devices 
quaint ; 
And autumn's latest sunny days are 
named 
St. Martin's summer from the 
genial saint. 
Large were his charities; one winter 

day 
He saw a half-clad beggar in the way, 
And stopped and said : " Well met, 
my friend, well met ; 
That nose of thine, I see, is quite too 

blue." 
With that his trenchant sword he 
drew — 
For he was in the service yet — 
And cut his military cloak in two ; 

And with a pleasant laugh 
He bade the shivering rogue take 
half. 

On one of the great roads of 
France 
Two travellers were journeying on a 
day. 
The saint drew near, as if by 
chance, 
And joined them, walking the same 

way. 
A shabby pair in truth were they, 
For one was meanly covetous, and 

one 
An envious wretch — so doth the 
legend run. 
Yet courteously they greeted him, 
and talked 



Of current topics ; for example, 

whether 
There would be war, and what to- 
morrow's weather, 
Cheating the weary furlongs as they 
walked. 
And when the eventide drew near 
Thus spoke the saint: "We part to- 
night ; 
I am St. Martin, and I give you 
here 
The means to make your fortunes, 
used aright ; 
Let one of yon think what will 
please him best, 
And freely ask what I will freely 

give. 
And he who asks not shall from me 
receive 
Twice what the other gains by his 

request ; 
And now I take my leave." 
He spoke, and left the astonished 

men 
Delighted with his words ; but then 
The question rose, which of that 

lucky pair 
Should speak the wish and take the 
smaller share. 
Each begged the other not to heed 
The promptings of a selfish greed, 
But frame at once, since he so well 

knew how, 
The amplest, fullest wish that words, 
allow. 
"Dear comrade, act a princely 
part; 
Lay every sordid thought aside ; 



79 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



Show thyself generous as thou 

art; 
Take counsel of thy own large 
heart, 
And nobly for our common good 
provide." 
But neither prayers nor flatteries 

availed ; 
They passed from these to threats, 
and threats too failed. 
Thus went the pleadings on, until at 
last 
The covetous man, his very blood 
on fire, 
Flew at his fellow's throat and 
clenched it fast, 
And shrieked: "Die, then, or do 
what I require ; 
Die, strangled like a dog." That 
taunt awoke 
A fierce anger in his envious 
mate, 



And merged the thirst of gain in 
bitter hate ; 
And with a half-choked voice he 
spoke, 
Dissembling his malign intent, 
"Take off thy hand and I con- 
sent." 
The grasp was loosened, and he 
raised a shout, 
"I wish that one of my own eyes 
were out." 
The wish was gratified as soon as 

heard. 
St. Martin punctually kept his word. 
The envious man was one-eyed from 
that day, 
The other blind for his whole life 

remained. 
And this was all the good that 
either gained 
From the saint's offer in the public 
way. 



BRYANT. 




THE WORDS OF THE KORAN. 



Emir Hassan, of the prophet's race, 
Asked with folded hands the Al- 
mighty's grace. 
Then within the banquet-hall he sat 
At his meal upon the embroidered mat. 

There a slave before him placed the 

food, 
Spilling from the charger, as he 

stood, 
Awkwardly, upon the Emir's breast, 
Drops that foully stained the silken 

vest. 



To the floor, in great remorse and 
dread, 

Fell the slave, and thus beseeching 
said : 

"Master! they who hasten to re- 
strain 

Rising wrath, in Paradise shall 
reign." 



Gentle was the answer Hassan gave : 
"I'm not angry." "Yet," pursued 

the slave, 
"Yet doth higher recompense be- 
long 
To the injured who forgives a 

wrong." 

"I forgive," said Hassan- "Yet we 

read," 
Thus the prostrate slave went on to 

plead, 
" That a higher place in glory still 
Waits the man who renders good for 

ill." 

" Slave, receive thy freedom, and be- 
hold 

In thy hands I lay a purse of gold ; 

Let me never fail to heed in aught 

What the prophet of our God hath 
taught." 



6 



81 



BRYANT. 




THE MYSTERY OF FLOWERS. 



Not idly do I stray 
At prime, where far the mountain 
ridges run, 



And note, along my way, 
Each flower that opens in the early 
sun; 



83 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



Or gather blossoms by the valley's 
spring, 

When the sun sets and dancing in- 
sects sing. 

Each has her moral rede, 
Each of the gentle family of flowers ; 

And I with patient heed, 
Oft spell their lessons in my graver 

hours. 
The faintest streak that on a petal lies, 
May speak instruction to initiate eyes. 

CUMMINGTON, 1340. 



Each 



The 



And well do poets teach 
blossom's charming mystery •, 
declare, 
In clear melodious speech, 
silent admonitions pencilled 
there ; 
And from the Love of Beauty, aptly 

taught, 
Lead to a higher good, the willing 
thought. 

Eobltn, 1875. 






84 



BRYANT. 



THE CENTENNIAL HYMN. 



Through calm and storm the years 
have led 
Our nation on, from stage to 



A century's space — until we tread 
The threshold of another age. 

We see where o'er our pathway 

swept 

A torrent-stream of Mood and fire, 

And thank the Guardian Power who 

kept 

Our sacred League of States entire. 



Oh, chequered train of years, fare- 
well! 
"With all thy strifes and hopes and 
fears ! 
Yet with us let thy memories dwell, 
To warn and teach the coming 
years. 

And thou, the new-beginning age, 
Warned by the past, and not in 
vain, 

Write on a fairer, whiter page, 
The record of thy happier reign. 







BRYANT. 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 



A mighty Hand, from an exhaustless 

Urn, 
Pours forth the never-ending Flood 

of Years, 
Among the nations. How the rush- 
ing waves 
Bear all before them ! On their fore- 
most edge, 
And there alone, is Life. The Pres- 
ent there 
Tosses and foams, and fills the air 

with roar 
Of mingled noises. There are they 

who toil, 
And they who strive, and they who 

feast, and they 
"Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy 

swain — 
Woodman and delver with the spade 

— is there, 
And busy artisan beside his bench, 
And pallid student with his written 

roll. 
A moment on the mounting billow 

seen, 
The flood sweeps over them and they 

are gone. 
There groups of revellers whose 

brows are twined 
With roses, ride the topmost swell 

awhile, 
And as they raise their flowing cups 

and touch 
,The clinking brim to brim, are 

whirled beneath 
The waves and disappear. I hear 

the jar 
Jf beaten drums, and thunders that 

break forth 



87 



From cannon, where the advancing 

billow sends 
Up to the sight long files of armed 

men, 
That hurry to the charge through 

flame and smoke. 
The torrent bears them under, 

whelmed and hid 
Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody 

foam. 
Down go the steed and rider, the 

plumed chief 
Sinks with his followers; the head 

that wears 
The imperial diadem goes down be- 
side 
The felon's with cropped ear and 

branded cheek. 
A funeral-train — the torrent sweeps 

away 
Bearers and bier and mourners. By 

the bed 
Of one who dies men gather sorrow- 
ing, 
And women weep aloud; the flood 

rolls on; 
The wail is stifled and the sobbing 

group 
Borne under. Hark to that shrill, 

sudden shout, 
The cry of an applauding multitude, 
Swayed by some loud-voiced orator 

who wields 
The living mass as if he were its 

soul! y~ 

The waters choke the shout and all is V 

still. 
Lo! next a kneeling crowd, and one 

who spreads 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



The hands in prayer— the engulfing 

wave o'ertakes 
And swallows them and him. A 

sculptor wields 
The chisel, and the stricken marble 

grows 
To beauty ; at his easel, eager-eyed, 
A painter stands, and sunshine at his 

touch 
Gathers upon his canvas, and life 

glows; 
A poet, as he paces to and fro, 
Murmurs his sounding lines. Awhile 

they ride 
The advancing billow, till its tossing 

crest 
Strikes them and flings them under, 

while their tasks 
Are yet unfinished. See a mother 

smile 
On her young babe that smiles to her 

again ; 
The torrent wrests it from her arms ; 

she shrieks 
And weeps, and midst her tears is 

carried down. 
A beam like that of moonlight turns 

the spray 
To glistening pearls; two lovers, 

hand in hand, 
Rise on the billowy swell and fondly 

look 
Into each other's eyes. The rushing 

flood 
Flings them apart: the youth goes 

down ; the maid 
With hands outstretched in vain, and 

streaming eyes, 
Wa.i^ for the next high wave to 

lOllow him. 
An aged man succeeds ; his bending 

form 
Sinks slowly. Mingling with the 

sullen stream 



Gleam the white locks, and then are 
seen no more. 
Lo! wider grows the stream— a 
sea- like flood 

Saps earth's walled cities; massive 
palaces 

Crumble before it; fortresses and 
towers 

Dissolve in the swift waters; popu- 
lous realms 

Swept by the torrent see their 
ancient tribes 

Engulfed and lost; their very lan- 
guages 

Stifled, and never to be uttered 
more. 
I pause and turn my eyes, and 
looking back 

Where that tumultuous flood has 
been, I see 

The silent ocean of the Past, a waste 

Of waters weltering over graves, its 
shores 

Strewn with the wreck of fleets 
where mast and hull 

Drop away piecemeal; battlemented 
walls 

Frown idly, green with moss, and 
temples stand 

Unroofed, forsaken by the wor- 
shipper. 

There lie memorial stones, whence 
time has gnawed 

The graven legends, thrones of kings 
o'erturned, 

The broken altars of forgotten gods, 

Foundations of old cities and long 
streets 

Where never fall of human foot is 
heard, 

On all the desolate pavement. I be- 
hold 

Dim glimmerings of lost jewels, far 
within 



88 



BRYANT. 



The sleeping waters, diamond, sar- 
donyx, 
Ruby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite, 
Once glittering at the banquet on fair 

brows 
That long ago were dust, and all 

around 
Strewn on the surface of that silent 

sea 
Are withering bridal wreaths, and 

glossy locks 
Shorn from dear brows, by loving 

hands, and scrolls 
O'er written, haply with fond words 

of love 
And vows of friendship, and fair 

pages flung 
Fresh from the printer's engine. 

There they lie 
A moment, and then sink away from 

sight. 
I look, and the quick tears are in 

my eyes, 
For I behold in every one of these 
A blighted hope, a separate history 
Of human sorrows, telling of dear 

ties 
Suddenly broken, dreams of happi- 
ness 
Dissolved in air, and happy days too 

brief 
That sorrowfully ended, and I think 
How painfully must the poor heart 

have beat 
In bosoms without number, as the 

blow 
Was struck that slew their hope and 

broke their peace. 
Sadly I turn and look before, 

where yet 
The Flood must pass, and I behold 

a mist 
Where swarm dissolving forms, the 

brood of Hope, 



Divinely fair, that rest on banks of 

flowers, 
Or wander among rainbows, fading 

soon 
And reappearing, haply giving place 
To forms of grisly aspect such gs. 

Fear 
Shapes from the idle air — where 

serpents lift 
The head to strike, and skeletons 

stretch forth 
The bony arm in menace. Further 

on 
A belt of darkness seems to bar the 

way 
Long, low, and distant, where the- 

Life to come 
Touches the Life that is. The Flood 

of Years 
Rolls toward it near and nearer. It 

must pass 
That dismal barrier. What is there 

beyond ? 
Hear what the wise and good have 

said. Beyond 
That belt of darkness, still the Years 

roll on 
More gently, but with not less mighty 

sweep. 
They gather up again and softly bear 
All the sweet lives that late were 

overwhelmed 
And lost to sight, all that in them 

was good, 
Noble, and truly great, and worthy 

of love — 
The lives of infants and ingenuous 

youths, 
Sages and saintly women who have 

made 
Their households happy; all are 

raised and borne 
By that great current in its onward 

sweep, 



89 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



Wandering and rippling with caress- 
ing waves 
Around green islands with the breath 
Of flowers that never wither. So 

they pass 
Frf m stage to stage along the shining 

course 
Of that bright river, broadening like 

a sea. 
As its smooth eddies curl along their 

way 
They bring old friends together; 

hands are clasped 
In joy unspeakable ; the mother's arms 
Again are folded round the child she 

loved 
And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten 

now, 



Or but remembered to make sweet 

the hour 
That overpays them ; wounded hearts 

that bled 
Or broke are healed forever. la the 

room 
Of this grief-shadowed present, there 

shall be 
A Present in whose reign no grief 

shall gnaw 
The heart, and never shall a tender 

tie 
Be broken ; in whose reign the 

eternal Change 
That waits on growth and action 

shall proceed 
With everlasting Concord hand in 

hand. 



BRYANT. 



IN MEMORY OF JOHN LOTHEOP MOTLEY. 

Sleep, Motley! with the great of ancient days, 
Who wrote for all the years that yet shall be ; 

Sleep with Herodotus, whose name and praise 
Have reached the isles of earth's remotest sea; 

Sleep, while, defiant of the slow decays 

Of time, thy glorious writings speak for thee, 

And in the answering heart of millions raise 
The generous zeal for Right and Liberty. 

And should the day o'ertake us when, at last, 
The silence that, ere yet a human pen 

Had traced the slenderest record of the past- 
Hushed the primeval languages of men — 

Upon our English tongue its spell shall cast, 
Thy memory shall perish only then. 
91 



BRYANT. 




THE TWENTY-SECOND OF FEBEUARY. 



Pale is the February sky, 

And brief the mid-day's sunny 
hours ; 
The wind-swept forest seems to sigh 
For the sweet time of leaves and 
flowers. 

Yet has no month a prouder day, 
Not even when the summer broods 

O'er meadows in their fresh array, 
Or autumn tints the glowing 
woods. 

For this chill season now again 
Brings, in its annual round, the 
morn 

When, greatest of the sons of men, 
Our glorious Washington was born. 



Lo, where, beneath an icy shield, 
Calmly the mighty Hudson flows ! 

By snow-clad fell and frozen field, 
Broadening, the lordly river goes. 

The wildest storm that sweeps 
through space, 
And rends the oak with sudden 
force, 
Can raise no ripple on his face, 
Or slacken his majestic course. 

Thus, 'mid the wreck of thrones, 
shall live 
Unmarred, undimmed, our hero's 
fame, 
And years succeeding years shall give 
Increase of honors to his name. 



98 



BRYANT. 



FABLES. 



THE ELM AND THE VINE. 

" Uphold my feeble branches 

By thy strong arms, I pray." 
Thus to the Elm her neighbor 

The Vine was heard to say. 
" Else, lying low and helpless, 

A wretched lot is mine, 
Crawled o'er by every reptile, 

And browsed by hungry kine." 
The Elm was moved to pity. 

Then spoke the generous tree : 
" My hapless friend, come hither, 

And find support in me." 
The kindly Elm, receiving 

The grateful Vine's embrace, 
Became, with that adornment, 

The garden's pride and grace ; 
Became the chosen covert 

In which the wild-birds sing; 
Became the love of shepherds, 

And glory of the spring. 

Oh, beautiful example 

For youthful minds to heed ! 
The good we do to others 

Shall never miss its meed. 
The love of those whose sorrows 

We lighten shall be ours ; 
And o'er the path we walk in 

That love shall scatter flowers. 



THE DONKEY AND THE MOOKING-BIRD. 

A mock-bird in a village 

Had somehow gained the skill 

To imitate the voices 
Of animals at will. 



And, singing in his prison 
Once at the close of day, 

He gave with great precision 
The donkey's heavy bray. 

Well pleased, the mock-bird's mas- 
ter 

Sent to the neighbors round, 
And bade them come together 

To hear that curious sound. 

They came, and all were talking 
In praise of what they heard, 

And one delighted lady 

Would fain have bought the 
bird. 

A donkey listened sadly, 
And said : " Confess I must, 

That these are stupid people, 
And terribly unjust. 

"I'm bigger than the mock-bird, 
And better bray than he, 

Yet not a soul has uttered 
A word in praise of me." 



THE CATERPILLAR AND THE BUTTERFLY. 

{Selected.) 

" Good-morrow, friend." So spoke, 
upon a day, 
A caterpillar to a butterfly. 
The winged creature looked another 



And made this proud reply: 
" No friend of worms am I." 



94 



LEAFLETS FROM STANDARD AUTHORS. 



The insulted caterpillar heard, 

And answered thus the taunting 

word; 
"And what wert thou, I pray, 
Ere God bestowed on thee that brave 

array ? 
Why treat the caterpillar tribe with 

scorn ? 
Art thou, then, nobly born? 
What art thou, madam, at the best? 
A caterpillar elegantly dressed." 

THE SPIDEE's WEB. 

A dextbous spider chose 

The delicate blossom of a garden 

rose 
Whereon to plant and bind 
The net he framed to take the insect 

kind. 
And when his task was done, 
Proud of the cunning lines his art 

had spun, 
He said : " I take my stand 
Close by my work, and watch what I 

have planned. 
And now, if Heaven should bless 
My labors with but moderate success, 
No fly shall pass this way, 
Nor gnat, but they shall fall an easy 

I oke, when from the sky 
t. .strong wind swooped, and whirl- 
ing, hurried by, 

before the blast, 
Rose, leaf, and web, and plans and 
hopes were cast. 

THE DIAL AND THE SUN. 

A Dial, looking from a stately 
tower, 
While from his cloudless path in 
heaven the Sun 



Shone on its disk, as hour succeeded 
hour, 
Faithfully marked their flight till 
day was done. 

Fair was that gilded disk, but when 
at last 
Night brought the shadowy hours 
'twixt eve and prime, 
No longer that fair disk, for those 
who passed, 
Measured and marked the silent 
flight of time. 

The human mind, on which no 
hallowed light 
Shines from the sphere beyond the 
starry train, 
Is like the Dial's gilded disk at 
night, 
Whose cunning tracery exists in 
vain. 



THE EAGLE AND THE SEEPENT. 

A sebpent watched an eagle gain, 
On soaring wings, a mountain 
height, 
And envied him, and crawled with 
pain 
To where he saw the bird alight. 
So fickle fortune oftentimes 
Befriends the cunning and the 
base, 
And many a grovelling reptile climbs 
Up to the eagle's lofty place. 



THE WOODMAN AND SANDAL-TBEE. 

Beside a sandal-tree a woodman 
stood 
And swung the axe, and while 
its blows were laid 



95 



BRYANT. 



Upon the fragrant trunk, the gener- 
ous wood 
With its own sweet perfumed the 
cruel blade. 
Go, then, and do the like. A soul 
endued 
With light from heaven, a nature 
pure and great, 
Will place its highest bliss in doing 



And good for evil give, and love 
for hate. 



THE HIDDEN EILL. 

Across a pleasant field a rill unseen 
Glides from a fountain, nor does 

aught betray 
Its presence, save a tint of lovelier 

green, 



And flowers that scent the air 
along its way. 
Thus silently should charity attend 
Those who in want's drear cham- 
bers pine and grieve ; 
No token should reveal the aid we 
lend, 
Save the glad looks our welcome 
visits leave. 

THE COST OF A PLEASURE. 

Upon the valley's lap 
The liberal morning throws 

A thousand drops of dew 
To wake a single rose. 

Thus often, in the course 
Of life's few fleeting years, 

A single pleasure costs 
The soul a thousand tears. 



96 



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